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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25125916">swear i'd burn this city down to show you the light</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryelftwink/pseuds/angryelftwink'>angryelftwink</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>no one can touch you now that you're mine [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age: Origins</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M, Mild Internalized Homophobia, glossed-over sexual content</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 09:40:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,056</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25125916</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/angryelftwink/pseuds/angryelftwink</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Angharad Brosca hates Orzammar. Zevran offers armor, as he understands it: luxury and appearances.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Zevran Arainai/Male Brosca</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>no one can touch you now that you're mine [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1812061</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>ZevWarden Week 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>swear i'd burn this city down to show you the light</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Leliana,” Zevran whined, letting each letter roll as lazily off his tongue as him lounging on a sofa.</p><p>She looked up from where she was… attempting to train her nug? The thing seemed to have decided to nap instead. “I heard you the first time, Zevran, and the second, and the third.”</p><p>“Leliana,” he repeated, “why do dwarves not like tattoos?”</p><p>“You know just as well as I do.” She patted the little nug and scooped it up in her arms. “I take it your day at the market went poorly?”</p><p>“Terribly.” He gazed up at the stone ceiling. “With a little Ferelden and a little Orlesian I can get by speaking to them, but they <em>clearly </em>do not trust me. I know the look of those who do not believe I have any money, Ana.”</p><p>“<em>Did</em> you have any money?”</p><p>“I certainly did... this time.”</p><p>Leliana sat down next to him, cradling the nug to her chest. She grinned. “Who’d you steal it from?”</p><p>“Oh, a little here, a little there. The Carta hideout, but it is hardly stealing when they are all dead, no? Servants of Lord Harrowmont in the name of our illustrious employer, of course. Also, our illustrious employer. He drives a hard bargain but I talked him into a nice sum.”</p><p>“What do you need all that money for?</p><p>Zevran finally pulled himself to sit properly, legs folded under himself, and face Leliana. “If we are to face the Assembly in a few days and reveal what Caridin has said to us… I wish Angharad to have nice clothes. That is all. It makes us seem more respectable.”</p><p>“More respectable,” she said, with a knowing little giggle. Leliana was annoying like that. She was sharp, sentimental, and a bit of a nag. Both best and worst in Zevran’s eyes, she adored Angharad as a brother. “I’d gladly go shopping with you in the morning, Zevran. Though I’m no expert on Dwarven fashion…”</p><p>Zevran prepared himself for that statement to seem thoroughly false.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Zevran had decided to pretend he did not speak Orlesian while Leliana negotiated—forcefully!—with the merchant. Instead, he perused the man’s wares.</p><p>Wool was what they wanted, genuine imported wool. Mosswool was too common (and, in both Zevran and Leliana’s opinions, smelled). Flax and cotton were also considered luxury here, but wool would have more worth in Ferelden. Zevran sorted through the jackets, looking for something with a good dye. They had to hurry if they were to alter any of these to fit—well, anyone. Finding clothes ready-made to tailor at your will was convenient, but made finding <em>quality </em>difficult.</p><p>Oh, had the shopkeeper just insulted Leliana’s mother? Best to hurry.</p><p>Not red, not red, it would clash with his hair. Not blue either, the last thing you needed was to gift Angharad in Warden colors.</p><p>There. There it was. A beautiful jacket of golden wool, with intricate embroidery at the shoulders. Zevran pulled it out of a drawer and neatly marched back to Leliana.</p><p>“This will do wonderfully!” he announced in Orlesian. In an instant, Leliana was back to being a sweet little Chantry sister.</p><p>“How much?” she asked the shopkeeper, eyelashes a-fluttering.</p><p>In the end, they knocked him down to half-price, and stole a spool of spidersilk thread and his shears to boot.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>“You are a terrible person,” Zevran said, conversationally.</p><p>“Ooh, shoes!” said Leliana.</p><p> </p><p>~</p><p> </p><p>Angharad allowed himself to be escorted, arm around his shoulder, down the street. It was the night before he was to speak to the Assembly.  He couldn’t bear to think, not until he could see the sky again.</p><p>“Just a little further,” Zevran said, “and then you shall have your surprise.”</p><p>“From anyone but you, I wouldn’t take this.” He sighed, letting Zevran guide him around the corner. At least here in the Diamond Quarter, people kept to enough of a schedule that you didn’t see people on the streets at all hours. More like the Surface.</p><p>“Oh, you would allow plenty of people to surprise you. The dog. Alistair. Leliana.”</p><p>“Not Leliana.” Angharad paused. “It would depend on how much she giggled.”</p><p>“Wise man. Look up.” Zevran nodded, gesturing to the building in front of them.</p><p>It was grand. Angharad would have once called it a palace. And above the door…</p><p>“Zev, you <em>do </em>know I can’t read?”</p><p>Zevran tilted his head, then sighed in resignation. “My apologies. Such an elaborate plan to cheer you up, and I fail to take that into account? I am slipping indeed.”</p><p>“And the sign says?” He smiled. At least there was Zevran.</p><p>“This is a bath house,” Zevran said, gesturing wide. “A fine bath house, built to demonstrate the wonders of dwarven craftsmanship or some such nonsense. It is intended for the most esteemed visitors, such as <em>Grey Wardens.</em> To be polite, mi tesoro, we both still carry a slight whiff of darkspawn. I can regale you with the luxuries of <em>Antivan </em>bathhouses!”</p><p>“You know, in Trade, ‘bathhouse’ and ‘cooking with lava’ are the same word.” He waited for Zevran to get it. “You’re right, though. We do smell like the Deep Roads.”</p><p>“Let us go in, then.” Zevran wrapped his arm around Angharad’s shoulders once more, escorting him in.</p><p>Angharad let his head rest on Zevran’s shoulder.</p><p>The first room was a grand hall, painted in vibrant reds and golds and lit by runestones. In the corner there was a little desk, with a small mousy dwarf sitting behind it. Angharad jolted back in fear, trying to stay back from Zevran and hide his brands. She would kick him out, he knew that, but Zevran just smiled, and the woman didn’t seem to react.</p><p>“Grey Warden and guest,” she noted, scribbling something down behind the desk. “All will be as you requested, Messere Aranai. Please, enter the cleansing chambers.”</p><p>Angharad nodded to her, knots twisting in his chest. Servants. He didn’t know how to accept being on the other side, served instead of scorned by the same people.</p><p>“Thank you, madam.” Zevran gave a flourishing bow, then nudged Angharad towards the door the woman had indicated.</p><p>The small room was dominated by a waterfall. It rushed from the bare stone ceiling, down to the floor which was marked by a rune surrounded by small drains. By the side of the door, there was a bench with a bin under it made of brass, intricately forged into the most ornate and Dwarven thing Angharad had seen in his life.</p><p>“For clothes,” said Zevran, gesturing. “Leliana and Morrigan attended while we were searching for Branka.”</p><p>“You arranged this, <em>Messere Aranai</em>?” Angharad swallowed his anxiety. Zevran had begun to strip. So would he, then. Being naked with Zevran was the easiest thing in the world.</p><p>“I did. Minimum interference from the attendants—those who are here at all hours regardless shall note our presence, move our clothes to the exit, and assist us if there is a problem. I also tipped handsomely.”</p><p>Angharad bent down to unlace his boots. “A great deal of trouble to make me comfortable.”</p><p>“If you are comfortable, I am free to take the odd liberty, no?” Zevran shrugged. He, of course, was naked already and had begun to take down his braids. “I assure you, my motivations in getting you alone with me in a bathhouse were entirely selfish in nature.”</p><p>Angharad dropped his breeches and managed to enjoy Zevran’s knowing leer and wolf whistle. He could accept this. Maybe.</p><p>“All this to get me naked and not smelling of darkspawn. You just can’t do things the easy way, can you, Zev?” He turned his head to the side and began to let down the braid crown. It would be nice, he thought, to wash his hair under this waterfall. To take in the smell of wet stone, the sound of droplets splashing around. He could tell from here the water was cold as the springs they’d bathed in on their way through the mountains.</p><p>“Of course not.” Zevran stepped under the water and gasped at the chill. “Besides, a nice warm bath pleases me. Not merely a wash in a basin by the fire, but a heated bath pool. It is luxury itself, my dear Angharad.”</p><p>“If you’re a nug, maybe.” He combed his fingers through the waves left by his braids and dumped the last handful of pins into the bin. “They say this duster who heard the nobles heated their baths with lava tried to set his tub next to a flow.”</p><p>“That does not sound so—”</p><p>“Tub was tin. Boiled him up in a flash.” Angharad stepped into the water and sighed, contentedly, as it poured down his body. “Or they say he just fell in. I always thought that one made more sense.”</p><p>“Nice story.” Zevran scrubbed at his hair. “Cheerful.”</p><p>Angharad tilted his head to let the water flow through his hair, gladly breathing in the chill air. He spent a few moments just soaking his hair and delighting in the fall of water on his skin. They’d bathed every day since the Deep Roads of course, in lukewarm basins of cave water from Tapster’s. It wasn’t the same. If he shut his eyes, he could pretend this was the Surface. Better than the Surface, with that scent of cold drenched stone in the air.</p><p>“It feels like Ferelden,” Zevran grumbled, already stepping towards the other door.</p><p>“Can’t be. Doesn’t smell like dog.” Angharad took another second to luxuriate. He let all his muscles tense and relax, then stepped out to meet Zevran. “How many rooms does this place have, anyway?”</p><p>“Don’t ask me.”</p><p>Angharad wrung his hair out before they opened the door to the next room. Towels were laid out, made of Surface linen and pristinely clean. Zevran snatched up a pair, tossing one to Angharad and drying his hair off with the other. On one wall, metal things like delicate crowbars; on the other was shelves lined with jugs. A few smooth, broad benches were set in the middle.</p><p>“What… is this?” Angharad gestured, wrapping the towel around his hair and rubbing as hard as he could.</p><p>“Oil and scrapers. They seem to like their foreigners quite clean before they experience the true baths.”</p><p>“Oil.” Angharad lifted his head to cock an eyebrow at Zevran. “I seem to recall you making promises to me about a jar of oil.”</p><p>“Oh, did I?” Zevran laughed, beginning to dry his legs off. “Such things happen in many bathhouses, yes. It is highly convenient.”</p><p>Angharad fumbled around, looking for somewhere to put his wet towel. He settled on hanging it upon the door handle. That settled, he could go over to the jars and peer inside.</p><p><em>Scented </em>oils. Rich, like Rica’s perfumes.</p><p>“Shall we find one you like, then?” Zevran tossed his towel casually to the floor and strode over to Angharad. One arm wrapped around his shoulders, and he nipped playfully on Angharad’s bare shoulder.</p><p>“I don’t know.” Angharad capped the jar and placed it back on the shelf, moving on to another. All just as cold and smooth and heavy, only differentiated by the scenes painted on them. “Do you really think mushrooms is an improvement over darkspawn?”</p><p>He offered up the jar for Zevran to smell. As expected, Zevran wrinkled his nose. “Ah, that abominable perfume your nobles wear.”</p><p>“I don’t hate it, but… I’m getting sick of caves.”</p><p>“Allow me. Go lay over there.” Zevran tilted his head to the benches. “A nice massage, and then we scrape off the oils. Your skin shall be soft and your odor pleasant.”</p><p>Angharad snorted as he obeyed the directions. The benches were of an oddly comfortable temperature—runes, he supposed. “I don’t think anything will make my skin <em>soft</em>, Zevran.”</p><p>“How do you suppose the aristocracy does it, eh?” Zevran went on uncapping jars, sniffing loudly, and placing them back on the shelf. “Trust me, this place will do wonders.”</p><p>“Wonders, you say.”</p><p>Angharad sighed, wriggling slightly on the bench. Why had Zevran decided to take him here? Enough hot water, soap, maybe perfume if you were feeling rich, and that would handle the Deep Roads stench. One wink, and that would get Angharad undressed. Why waste time and money on… this?</p><p>“Oh.” Zevran’s rummaging stopped. “Oh, dolce benedizione di June.”</p><p>“And that’s… good?” He tilted his head to look at where Zevran was cradling a jar, as tenderly as little Endrin.</p><p>“Tesoro, this is <em>Antivan</em>. Rich spices, coffee—do not get me wrong, it is not excellent perfume, but it is <em>Antivan.</em>”</p><p>“Well, go ahead then.”</p><p>Whatever had brought Zevran here, it was all worth it. Worth it just for this, for a little piece of Antiva to explore together. Yet, it was a surprise. Zevran had another reason, then, and Angharad tried to think of the words to tease it out as Zevran began to massage the oil into his shoulders.</p><p>They talked, idly, observations about Carta operations and their imminent trip to Denerim. Angharad was hardly paying attention. Zevran’s hands were as beautiful as ever, filling a great void that had always lived inside his soul.</p><p>But he could have done that at Tapster’s. Angharad flattered himself that even when he couldn’t predict Zevran, he could understand his reasoning after. This, though, was throwing him. He could almost understanding wanting to come, but not why he’d take Angharad. The bathhouse wasn’t too bad, maybe even worth it, but… the Diamond Quarter. The sodding <em>Diamond Quarter.</em></p><p>The oil Zevran was rubbing into his thighs could probably have paid for their <em>lives.</em> More than Beraht could have given them, more than he poured into Rica (thank the <em>Ancestors</em> she’d won Bhelen), more than Angharad’s fists had won him over the years. Zevran had made sure that the servants would leave them alone, but easier yet to just not come, wasn’t it?</p><p>Angharad snorted. Zevran cocked his head, waiting for an answer before he poured more oil into his hands.</p><p>“The attendants are probably glad you didn’t want them fussing over us. Get to ignore that they’re stuck serving a brand.”</p><p>“Satisfying, isn’t it?” Zevran laughed, pouring the oil and beginning to massage Angharad’s calves. “I thought every luxury in Orzammar ought to be laid at your feet as an apology. A bit selfish of me, as it allows me to indulge.”</p><p>It took him some thought. Brushing away the glorious ache of how much Zevran cared, something they both knew was to be ignored (but not for long, please), how <em>did </em>he feel about it? Every luxury in Orzammar at his feet. He thought of Rica’s lessons. He thought of how Endrin would grow up, son of the king.</p><p>“I liked killing Jarvia better.”</p><p>Zevran laughed, taking Angharad’s other calf now. “That is slightly harder to arrange than a trip to the bathhouse. Our time here is limited and I cannot perform miracles, no?”</p><p>“What, the assassin can’t find us a job?” He chuckled as he stood, allowing Zevran to take his place on the bench. Living up to Zevran’s massage skills made Angharad quite self-conscious, but he poured the oil into his hands (a fine, spicy scent) and began to rub Zevran’s back. “I’m surprised you didn’t just kill Harrowmont.”</p><p>“Ah, nobody asked me to.” He sighed, so relaxed and pliant beneath Angharad’s hands. “If you had, however…”</p><p>He thought about it. About why he hadn’t.</p><p>Maybe he would have, if he hadn’t been a Grey Warden but something… less. Maybe if Leliana, Alistair, or Wynne hadn’t been there.</p><p>Angharad couldn’t regret it, though. Not when it had given him the ability to slay Branka and destroy the Anvil. She might have returned to Orzammar with it otherwise, and the end would come to the Carta then. An end to Dust Town, as well—all of it buried in molten lyrium.</p><p>“What after this?” He poured more oil, moving down to Zevran’s wonderful buttocks.</p><p>“Scrape the oil off. Enjoy the finest pools dwarven engineering can produce. Dress, return to our rooms, catch a bit of sleep before the Assembly.” Zevran gave obliging moans as Angharad gently massaged the oil in. “Or other activities done in a bed. That has appeal as well, no?”</p><p>“I’m surprised you haven’t offered to bend me over these benches yet.” He smiled, allowing a few teasing pinches in. “Such restraint, Zevran Arainai.”</p><p>“Well, if you <em>insist.</em>” He chuckled. “I am sure we can have <em>some </em>discreet fun.”</p><p>“There’s my Zevran.”</p><p>It had to go back to there. It had to. Things had been too much lately, too open and effusive. Every time Angharad thought he was ready, it jumped out too big and too frightening. Oghren joking about ‘young love’, the fact the only thing Angharad could think of to answer <em>every luxury in Orzammar ought to be laid at your feet </em>was <em>I love you too, Zevran.</em></p><p>The rest of the oiling was far less chaste. After that, Angharad quietly let Zevran lead—scraping the oil down, leading him into each luxurious pool. Runes to make them hot, cold, lap in waves like Lake Calenhad. Zevran waxed rhapsodic about the ocean while keeping Angharad breathless.</p><p>It felt right, really, to kiss and touch a man in the Diamond Quarter. Alone and safe, desecrating their opulence. Letting Zevran erase his fears, the water washing away how filthy he’d once felt.</p><p>In the last pool, warmed by channels of the lava, they simply sat by the side, Angharad’s head on Zevran’s shoulder.</p><p>“I bought you clothing for tomorrow,” Zevran murmured. “This way… you can stand before them an equal. I… cannot bear seeing you of all people in such fear, Angharad. I do not know if looking fine and rich will make you feel better, but it is all I know.”</p><p>Angharad ran his hand through the water, watching how it caught the lava’s glow. “Where did you get all the money for this, Zev?”</p><p>“I stole it.”</p><p>Angharad broke into peals of laughter. “Who from?”</p><p>“Ah, a little here, a little there.” He draped an arm around Angharad’s shoulders, grinning as Angharad went on laughing. “Carta agents, emissaries of the nobles, the nobles, rude shopkeepers, that man trying to set up a Chantry, the Shapers…”</p><p>Angharad guffawed. “<em>That</em>,” he declared, “makes me feel better.”</p>
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